Paul Temple: East of Algiers. Francis Durbridge

of Mirabel’s mouth. I began to feel that I was the object of his amusement.

      ‘We have checked on all foreigners in Paris hotels at the moment. There is no Benjamin Wincott and he is certainly not known to the American Embassy.’

      ‘Have you tried the Bedford Hotel?’

      ‘We have checked at all the big hotels. No one of that name is registered at any recognized hotel.’

      Steve and I talked for a long time after we had gone to bed. She was very distressed at the thought that within a few minutes of leaving us Judy Wincott had been attacked and killed.

      ‘One somehow feels that one should have been able to do something to avoid it, Paul. The motive must have been robbery, don’t you think?’

      ‘Maybe. Though I should have thought a thief would have been more likely to use a cosh or a razor.’

      I felt Steve shiver.

      ‘I’m glad I have you beside me. There seems to be such a lot of crime on the Continent. First the business in the room next door and now the news of this murder.’

      At last we put our light out and went to sleep.

      Almost at once it seemed that Steve was gently shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes, saw the pattern of light cast by the moonlight on the wall opposite our bed, and for a moment had to grope in my mind to realize where we were.

      ‘Paul, listen!’ Steve’s words came in an alarming stage whisper. ‘There’s something very funny happening in the next room.’

      I sat up quickly in bed and listened. It was a curious slithering, bumping noise as if a man were half carrying, half dragging a heavy weight. Through the wall it seemed that I could hear his grunts and heavy breathing. Then there came an especially loud thud against the dividing wall, a series of thumps and the sound of a door closing.

      ‘It’s Sam Leyland’s room,’ Steve said. ‘I thought he had moved somewhere else.’

      We sat there listening in the dark. The noise had stopped and there was an ominous silence on the other side of the wall.

      Beside me I heard a click, and Steve’s bedside light flooded the room. I already had one foot out of bed and was reaching for my dressing-gown.

      ‘Something damned fishy is going on. I’m going to have a look and see if he’s all right.’

      ‘Then I’m coming too,’ Steve said firmly, and slipped out of bed.

      We moved out into the corridor so fast that we cannoned into the young man who was at that moment passing our door. He too was wearing a dressing-gown and had apparently been roused from sleep just as we had.

      ‘Sorry,’ I said, and then remembering that we were in France I changed it to: ‘Pardon.’

      ‘It’s all right,’ the young man smiled. ‘I’m English too. My room’s on the floor below, and I came up to see what all the commotion was about. But if it’s only you two having a row…’

      He was good-looking in a matinee idol sort of way, with side-whiskers just a shade on the long side and a frieze of early morning stubble round his chin. He was tall and well-made, and a dressing-gown of sheer, sky-blue silk was knotted round his middle. His voice was well educated and nicely pitched, his manner of speaking lazy and slow. But his eyes, as they appraised Steve, were obviously missing nothing.

      ‘It wasn’t us,’ Steve said quickly. ‘I was woken up by it, and my husband was just going to investigate. It came from in here.’

      She pointed to the door of number twelve. The young man turned back and advanced towards the door. He gave a tentative knock; there was no answer.

      ‘Perhaps we should break in,’ he suggested unenthusiastically.

      Out of the corner of my eye I saw Steve stoop suddenly and pick something off the floor.

      I said: ‘Try the handle first.’

      The young man turned the handle and pushed. The door swung open into the pitch-dark room. The bulb in the corridor behind us sent a rectangle of light across the floor in which our two shadows loomed like elongated monsters. Someone had pulled the curtains in that room tight shut and the light behind us only served to accentuate the blackness of the rest of the room. We stood there for a moment, tense, as if expecting some nameless horror to burst out at us. Then the young man put a hand up and snapped on the light.

      The room was still in a state of chaos, though all Sam Leyland’s things had been collected and moved. The only difference was that the curtains were drawn, which they had not been before, and the doors of the big built-in cupboard on the wall adjoining our room were closed. I thought I could see an impression on the bed where a recumbent body might have lain.

      ‘Nobody here,’ the young man said. ‘But what an extraordinary mess! I think we’d better let the management know.’

      I said: ‘Hold on a moment.’

      I was remembering the thump on the wall which had brought us out of bed. It must have had something to do with that cupboard. I crossed the room, turned the small key in the lock and opened the door. Behind me I heard Steve gasp and the young man utter an exclamation.

      The body was lying on the floor of the cupboard, where it had been bundled hastily and unceremoniously. It was that of a girl, and she was wearing clothes which I recognized. Her legs were free, but her wrists were tied with a strip of cloth and a gag was still in her mouth. I lifted her face for a moment before letting it fall back on her chest. Her body was still warm, but there could be no life behind those eyes. My guess was that she had been forcibly brought to that room and then smothered with the pillow which still lay on the bed. Not a very pretty crime.

      ‘Don’t look, Steve,’ I said, and stood up to shield her from the sight. But Steve had already seen enough and was twisting away in horror. I closed the cupboard door and met the eyes of the young man. He was standing like a statue, trembling violently, every drop of colour drained from his face.

      ‘You’d better let them know downstairs about this,’ I told him. ‘I’ll stay here and look after my wife.’

      He seemed glad to go, and vanished without a word. Steve, whose nerves have become harder than those of most women, had pulled herself together quickly.

      ‘Paul!’ she said in a low voice. ‘You saw who it was. I couldn’t mistake that hair and those clothes. It was Judy Wincott!’

      I didn’t answer. A movement of the curtains had caught my eye, and I was very conscious of the fact that we had come into the room within a minute or so of the murderer completing his work. I pushed Steve back, stepped over to the curtains, and with a quick movement pulled them aside.

      In front of me the open windows gaped out on to the night, and the faint sea breeze which had stirred the curtains fanned my face. The greeny light of the street lamps brought the dark walls and gables into ghostly relief. Down below a street cleaner was hosing the pavement and swishing the debris down the gutters with a long brush. From somewhere indeterminate came the smell of tomorrow’s bread baking.

      I turned back to Steve.

      ‘This must be the way he went. We can’t have missed him by much. He may even have been watching us when we opened that cupboard.’

       Chapter Two

      THERE was little sleep in store for Steve and me that night. At my suggestion Mirabel was summoned and a cold-looking dawn was lightening the sky before we had made our statements and been given permission to withdraw.

      We were awakened by a buzz on the house telephone at ten o’clock. A quarter of an hour later our petit déjeuner was brought up on a nice big tray. We had barely finished our coffee and croissants when the ’phone